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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987587">Fear in a Handful of Dust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheheisk/pseuds/Sheheisk'>Sheheisk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once More into the Night [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fury (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Post-War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:21:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheheisk/pseuds/Sheheisk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Don runs out of war.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Don "Wardaddy" Collier/Norman "Machine" Ellison</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once More into the Night [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fear in a Handful of Dust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning for canon-typical violence, mentions of the Holocaust, and period-typical homophobia &amp; racism.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1945</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>They’d been put in a barn and given a box of C-Rations while Captain Waggoner tried to figure out what the hell to do with them. Don thought it was going to be about twenty-four hours before ordinance either fixed up the Fury enough to roll her off the road or got them a new tank, and then they’d be back in the shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whether or not they got put back in with the regular forces of 2nd Armoured or were detached to keep nannying the infantry through cow towns didn’t seem to matter. Patton’s army was rolling on towards Berlin regardless, and they’d be there in the thick of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Boyd,” Don said, lighting up his cigarette. “Remember Mehedia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boyd was hunched over a C-Ration can that had lost it’s label, painstakingly punching it open with a church key; he didn’t bother looking up. “Yeah, I remember Mehedia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were all sprawled out on hay bales next to some of the 100th. Grady was asleep, smart man, while the rest of them made an attempt on the rations. Don was keeping an eye on the roof; they seemed to be well-situated to stay dry from the rain, but the constant artillery had knocked away some of the shingles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo nudged Norman in the ribs. The two of them were huddled up shoulder-to-shoulder on the same hay bale stack. “Mehedia was our first landing, in Morocco,” Gordo explained, gesturing with his bottle of wine. “We went to the piano halls after. The dancing girls…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trailed off, staring at the fire, lost in reminiscences of the dancing girls in Casablanca two years ago. Mehedia was their first taste of combat. They’d been the only one in their unit to make it up the beach in the initial wave; it had been mined, and they’d been shelled from the town above the beachhead. Don guessed they’d been all as green as Norman back then, but that was a long time ago now, almost three years behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman barely even nodded at the explanation. The kid looked half-dead and he’d made almost no progress on getting his ration tin open. Ever since they’d gotten back from the crossroad he’d been dazed, which Don figured was fair enough, considering they’d had a pretty long day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don stood to pass his open can to Norman. “Trade you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman took it after a moment. “Thanks,” he mumbled, staring at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, it doesn’t look like food,” Gordo said helpfully. “That’s cause it ain’t. I worked in a slaughterhouse all my life, and I never saw an animal that looked like that. You’d be better off eating the rats around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don took the unopened can from Norman’s hand and sat back, knocking some of the ash off his cigarette. “Eat it, Norman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After another second, Norman tipped the bully beef back, spilling some of the watery gravy down his chin. He was far enough gone that he didn’t even make a face. Gordo passed him the bottle of wine, and Norman took a sip mechanically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don handed him another opened can. Ham and lima beans, the poor kid, but it was true what they said, that war was hell. “Eat that and then get some sleep,” he said, getting up. “I’m going for a walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The field quartermaster hadn’t got wise to the fact every other tank in the platoon had been knocked out, and Don wasn’t about to enlighten him. He left whistling, carrying a crate of smokes, hershey bars and real coffee earmarked for the entire platoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The roads looked different on foot than from the vantage point of the commander’s turret. It was high noon, although it was raining in an indecisive sort of way that made everything grey. There were some 88’s out on the perimeter, but even those were shelling a nearby hamlet in a desultory sort of way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The war had felt like it was over last August when they’d been ripping through the hedgerows of Normandy, but now they were in Germany, and the days were getting longer, and they were going to Berlin, and it really did feel like things would be over soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The local population was already hard at work salvaging what could be salvaged. Don walked around until he saw the blown-out tailor’s shop and found Irma, her hair tied back with a scarf and hands black with soot, climbing over the pile of bricks that used to be her apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was willing to sit for a moment  with him and share a cigarette. “We’ve been staying with a friend,” she said, keeping a sharp eye on Emma, who was working to free a chair from the rubble across the way. Three overly-helpful GIs were assisting her. “It hasn’t been too bad. Aside from, well, everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you and Emma safe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged, taking a long drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Safe enough. I suppose we should be glad you were Americans and not the Russians.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” she said. “Is the other one here as well? The boy? Emma would probably like to see him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure he’d like to see her,” Don said laconically, watching Emma drag the chair out from the rubble. It was remarkably intact, although not quite as remarkable as the length of her dress, which was the same she was wearing yesterday. The other soldiers certainly seemed to think so, but then again they were regular rear-echelon assholes, and probably didn’t pose much danger to her; or to any Germans, for that matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He warned Emma, you know,” Irma said. “He spoke German. He said there would be an airstrike.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He did?” Don said, glancing over at her. Although her face was drawn and expressionless, her fingers were trembling a little, knocking ash from her smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose it’s a miracle,” she said, unhappily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was high spring and there were flowers blooming in the meadows. The trees were shaking out green leaves, the spring grass grew wild and lush, and small brooks cut through the stands of trees and fields. It was downright idyllic for enemy territory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d gotten the Fury back, all in one piece, and had about half an hour to fix her up proper -- touching up the paint on the cannon, nailing spare treads up on the side, checking the oil and gas. The rat bastards in ordinance had stolen his Hedy Lamar pin-up, but they’d given them HV-rounds for the .75, so Don guessed that evened things out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was back to mopping up through the towns with the 100th Infantry, rolled up into a new tank platoon that had also seen some heavy losses, Dog Company. Their commander was a hard-faced Staff Sergeant named O’Malley who’d fought in Belgium that winter, so at least he probably wasn’t going to try and get them all killed to get a medal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying,” Coonass said, for the the thousandth time that day since they’d learned the 761st had crossed the Rhine, the first American tanks to do so, “They’re fine for support work, but they shouldn’t be driving tanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gordo’s a Mexican and we let him drive,” Don said, pulling up his binoculars to squint at a line of trees about five hundred yards out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but that’s different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How come?” Bible said. “They’re both coloured.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it’s Gordo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We fought with the 7th Armoured in Bastonge,” Bible said, switching sides in the arguement for no reason other than to give Coonass shit. “Weren’t you friends with one of them? Williams?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Coonass said reflectively. “He gave me some blankets when they got rotated out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good for fucking you,” Don said, glassing the next strand of trees, trying to make out if there was a Tiger, or a tank destroyer, lurking beneath the shrubs. He picked up the transceiver. “Dog One, this is Dog One-Two. I’ve got eyes on the trees, ten o’clock. How copy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re talking about one of the Black tank units,” Gordo explained to Norman down in front. “We fought with ‘em in Belgium.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Norman’s a Yankee,” Gordo called up to Coonass. “Probably’s got a black man in the family. Everybody does up north.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up,” Don said, trying to parse the garbeled reply from O’Malley; they hadn’t gotten the radio repaired yet and everything was coming through more static than voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, shut the fuck up, Daddy’s talking,” Coonass said to Gordo, and then to Norman, “You ain’t really have a black man in the family, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shook his head, not looking back. “Good,” Coonass said firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>O’Malley didn’t seem concerned about the stand of trees, which was fine; he was leading the column, so he’d be the first one to get smoked by artillery anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is really pretty country,” Coonass continued, squinting around the rolling green hills, the wildflowers swaying the breeze. “Why’d they try to invade Russia when they had all this, anyways?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Liebenshraum</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Don said. “Slow down, Gordo. We’re riding up O’Mallery’s ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Living space,” Boyd said.  “I read about it in Life. They wanted more land.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s that familiar from, I wonder,” Gordo said, who was still sore about the Mexicans losing Texas; but he was maintaining dispersion now, so Don decided to let the blatant anti-Americanism in his tank slide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whistle above them shattered the stillness. It was like throwing a rock into a still pond, shattering the idyllic day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get in!” Don yelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone scrambled down. A second later there was an explosion to their left. A spray of rock and dirt fell through the air to hammer down into their hatches just a moment later. Grady swore, shaking out his shoulder where a good-sized rock had hit him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had to be an amauteur gun crew, which was a good thing. A skilled Germany artillery unit wouldn’t put a shot up long of a lead vehicle like that. They had a system where they picked off the first and last tanks in a column so the rest couldn’t escape and then took their time with it. It wasn’t a system that was hard to figure out, once you were on the receiving end once or twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Contact left, ten o’clock,” O’Malley said, garbled over the radio. “Get out of the kill zone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo shifted the Fury up, her engine shaking the metal walls around them. “Traverse left,” Don said, climbing back out of the turret to fix his binoculars on the stand of trees. A wisp of smoke rose above the trees, and he caught the dull gleam of a cannon barrel, barely visible even magnified. “Range six hundred yards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready,” Grady said, and almost simultaneously, Boyd sent the shell towards the target. It was barely fifty yards short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold steady,” Don called down to Gordo, while Grady loaded up the next round. Across the field another pillar of smoke went up. The Kraut shell whistled past them a second later, blowing the top of a beech into splinters behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the other tanks, the Benjamin, fired a short round into the bushes, and then the Arabian Stallion fired way off the mark. It was hard to aim, going this fast. “Range six-fifty. When ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the way,” Boyd called. They were within range now; they chopped down a tree in the cospe, only a little to the right of the target, dropping it in front of the cannon. The Fury bumped along a little too close to the rear of O’Malley’s tank -- their driver couldn’t quite coax the same speed out of it that Gordo could -- and Don could hear the Germans yelling faintly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gordo, take it to nine o’clock, on my mark,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready,” Grady said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don was good at this part, figuring out the right time to strike; he kept his binoculars on the target. “Now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the way!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a direct hit. A greasy cloud of black smoke billowed into the blue sky, sparks showering out of it; they’d gotten the ammunition as well.There was no returning fire. Not too bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice shot,” O’Malley said over the radio. “Collier, get over there and clean it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were a few Germans still alive when they got there, barely more than twenty; more were dead around the cannon. Some were running away through the field. The ones that were wounded had their hands up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let ‘em have it,” Don said to the men. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boyd fired a round that caught a running man direct in the back; Don got up onto the 50cal and started chopping the rest down. Even Gordo got on the bow gun and started firing. The coaxial on the right side was silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fucking Norman, Don thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take long to finish mopping up. When there was no more movement down on the field, Don notched the 50cal and dropped down into the tank. Norman was looking straight forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is your weapon malfunctioning, Private?” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No sir,” Norman said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why didn’t you fire your fucking wepaon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were surrendering,” Norman said. “I’m not shooting men in the back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A minute ago they were trying to kill you,” Don said. “If you let them go you bet your ass they’ll come back to try to kill you tonight. It’s a war, not a fucking tea party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were surrendering,” Norman said again, quieter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don wished, vividly, that he could just shoot Norman in the head and be done with it. He would get out his revolver and stick it in Norman’s mouth so he could look him in the eyes when he pulled the trigger. Don could picture it now. Christ, the kid made him so fucking angry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don reached out and slammed Norman’s head against the wall, twice, before letting him go. “Do what I fucking tell you or you’re not going to survive,” he said, and then to Gordo, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone was dead silent. The only sound was the low rumble of the Fury’s engine, which kicked into high gear as they drove off. The smoke from the burning cannon stuck in his throat. If Norman thought that killing men in combat was something worth protesting in the war, he might as well just head on home, or else they were all dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He radioed in to Dog-One. “We looked around. No survivors. Over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good work,” O’Malley said. “We’re headed to the town. Over and out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reached the town around noon. It was big enough to have a church but not much else, sitting at the bottom of the gently sloped valley, which meant the fields and the trees around it were probably mined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All Dog units, halt,” O’Malley said over the company comms. “Button up. We’re assaulting across the field.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don watched across the line as the hatches closed on the tanks. To their left, O’Malley’s tank trundled along; they were sweeping out in a line, the infantry in columns between them. It didn’t take long for them to get halfway across the field. There wasn’t so much as a gunshot from the town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don couldn’t see any cannons, which is why it was such a fucking surprise when O’Malley’s tank blew up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It was quick, a single shot that was maybe a lucky one for the Krauts. The whole tank went up in flames. Don craned his head to look over; he’d nearly dropped his binoculars from the sudden crack of the explosion. Nobody came out of the hatches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” Don said, and then got on the radio. “Enemy fire ahead. Did anyone see muzzle fire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily the Mathila’s commander was a first sergeant and outranked Don, so he didn’t have to be leading this shitshow now that O’Malley had been knocked out. Everyone was yelling over the radio in a static buzz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gordo, traverse right,” Don called down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An explosion rocked the side of the Fury and they all yelled. Don was flung, hard, into the side of the tank hatch. For a moment Don thought that was it, but it was just another fucking mine, on the same goddamn side as the last time and everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s stuck,” Gordo said. He was calm, in the way he got when he thought they were going to die. A shell whistled past them and exploded some ten yards behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Don said. This war was supposed to be goddamn over. “Get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The field was getting peppered pretty good with machine gun fire; to their right, the Hunter was paused, shelling the town. The windows were lit up with muzzle fire. The Mathilda was still rolling on through the field, the infantry hot beside her. There was no cover in the field except for the tanks, and the infantry was a green company; they hadn’t learned that the tanks made bad cover but good targets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don jumped out of the turret and into the mud. A bullet whizzed past his head as he ducked behind the Fury. A moment later and Grady came around the other side, followed by Gordo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get back,” Don said, and then, “Where’s Boyd?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Grady said, and did exactly what Don didn’t want him to do, which was go back around the side of the Fury. The ground shook as the next shell exploded in front of them</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grady came back around with Boyd’s arm around his shoulder. Boyd was white-faced and hopping on one leg. The entire right side of his leg was soaked in blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go, go, get out of here,” Don said, shoving Gordo towards the rear. Norman was coming around the side of the Fury, too slow. “Get down!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman dropped. It wasn’t because he was listening to Don. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don hadn’t heard any distinct gunfire but that didn’t really matter; there was enough of it going around. He ran forward, grabbed Norman by the collar and hauled him back, feet slipping in the wet grass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don hauled the kid behind a dead G.I. and ducked on top of him. A second later, a shell detonated directly on top of the Fury. Don turned his head away, hearing metal bits falling to the ground a few seconds later; there was that acrid smell of burning fuel, the flames hot enough to warm the back of his hands, even from this far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman coughed. Don pulled back to look at him. Norman’s eyes were wide and very blue; he had a hand clapped around his throat. Blood was seeping through his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Don said. His medical kit had just blown up, along with everything else in the tank. “Medic! Hang on, kid. Medic!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman was gasping, maybe trying to say something. “You’re good, you’re fine,” Don said, putting his hand against the side of Norman’s face. “Just keep pressure on it. There’s a medic coming. Medic!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don hadn’t really meant it, since he had no idea if there were medics in the company, or if they could hear him, but one had come bounding towards them and was immediately kneeling down next to Norman, prying his hand off his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It didn’t get your artery,” the medic said to Norman, ripping open a pack of sulfa powder and sprinkingly it on the wound. Half of Norman’s neck was ripped open, and the white powder disappeared almost immediately into it. Don could see Norman’s heartbeat pulsing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The medic pressed a length of bandage into Norman’s hand and put it back on his neck. “You’re not going to die. Get him out of here, there’s a mack headed back with the wounded,” he said to Don, and then got back on his feet, already looking around, zeroing in on the next faint shouts for a medic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Norman,” Don said as the medic scampered off, bullets sending up clods of dirt around his feet. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got Norman by the arm and the leg and dragged him up, inelegantly, over his shoulders; it was a good thing the kid was light. Norman didn’t make a sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep pressure on it,” Don told him again, getting his feet under him and jogging back towards the road where the transport trucks were waiting. The burning Fury was some cover for them from the firefight as they got out of range, the pinging of bullets fading. Don jumped through the ditch and came up on the other side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give him here,” one man said, and Don swung him down. Norman was still conscious, although his eyelids were fluttering, and the white bandage was already soaked in red. Strapped to the front of a Jeep, an IV bag hooked on the side of the truck, was Boyd, a tourniquet around his leg. His eyes were closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They put another soldier with a blown off-arm next to him, and Norman in the back, and then the guy hopped in and put it in gear, heading down the road. Don could see Boyd’s hand bobbing off the side of the truck’s hood as they drove over the muddy ruts. It took Don a second to realize Gordo and Grady were both standing beside him, to his back, watching them drive off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Grady said, taking off his helmet to run his hand through his hair. His face was streaked with blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s Boyd?” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They got him in the leg pretty good,” Gordo said helplessly. He put three cigarettes in his mouth, lit them all and gave one to Don and Grady each. They all watched the Jeep turn the corner and vanish behind a copse of birches. It was over then, just like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only the Apache and Fury had been taken out; both were burning in the field, sending a thick column of black smoke into the blue sky. Don could hear the boom of the cannons echoing out of the small town. As they watched, the church spire exploded, sending bricks spinning into the streets below. There’d probably been a sniper’s nest up there. They’d gone through what felt like hundreds of small towns the same way, from the second-story height of the commander’s turret, blowing holes in the sides of hotels, houses, shops, doing a lot of killing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d gotten off lightly, he guessed. Usually tanks crews died together in the tanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Don said. “I had a good bottle of brandy in the Fury.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Gordo said sincerely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I fucking hate the Krauts,” Grady said in a cloud of smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don had seen worse than Norman’s wound but he kept thinking about it anyways, the bright red torn flesh, the phantom touch of where Norman had been holding onto his arm, how blue his eyes were in his mud-streaked face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They posted up at a barn for the night. The old farmer in the main house and his wife had been reluctant, but Don had given them some coffee and cigarettes for their trouble, and that had warmed them up a little. The boys had conscripted a scrawny chicken to the war effort and the wife was cooking it when there was a knock on the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo went up to get it, and Don’s head popped up when he heard him exclaim. Norman was standing in the door. His jacket collar was still stained with blood, but there was a clean white bandage over his neck, a duffelbag on his shoulder, and he even had a new greasegun in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo and Grady were genuinely happy to see him. “Look at fuckin’ Machine,” Grady said, getting up to clap him on the back. Norman winced, but he was smiling. “Just comes strolling back up. Wanted to see some pretty nurses, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They weren’t that pretty,” Norman said, with effort. His voice was a painful-sounding rasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back,” Don said. He was pleased Norman had come back to them; a wound like that was a million-dollar injury, something that could send him back to America with a good story for the girls. For a replacement, Norman wasn’t so bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you see Boyd?” Gordo asked, dragging a chair up for Norman to sit in. The wife frowned as she prodded the carrots stewing on the stove, but made no objection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman’s face fell, and he sat down, leaning his gun on the chair. “He’s alive,” he rasped. “But hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, don’t talk,” Gordo said, mothering instincts taking over. “Want anything to eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shook his head a little, not disturbing the bandage on his neck; the only color on his face was from the purplish circles under his eyes. Don watched him for a moment. He was moving stiffly, but otherwise looked fine. Don had genuinely thought the kid was dead, watching him bleed in the field. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was just the four of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reached the Elbe in the middle of April, driving through a town with no resistance. They were on high alert as they rolled through the cobblestone streets, but there was nothing until a young woman came out of an old Gothic church, trembling, holding a ratty piece of white fabric. There were no SS in the town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Compared to where they’d been, the town was unscathed; the streets were smooth and the buildings were unmarred by bombing runs or artillery shells. There were no factories to bomb, no airfields, just small farms and little fishing shacks out by the river and old castles, relics from a different era of war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Krauts had blown up the bridge on their way out. The platoon got backed up on the road overlooking the bridge, waiting for orders, and watched as civilians scrambled across the broken trestles towards them. It was a windy day, with wisps of clouds blowing across the marshy river, the drone of distant B-17s like gnats in the sky.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where the fuck are they going?” Grady asked eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re running from the Soviets,” Don said, flicking a cigarette butt over the side of the turret and scrutinizing the flow of people with a hand on his gun. None of them looked up; they knew the war was running out too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all places, they got put in a hotel, a rambling heap of old brick buildings overlooking the Elbe. The sun was setting behind the tower by the time their platoon rolled up, behind a whole caravan of macks and half-tracks and support staff. Captain Waggoner was there too, still wearing his ratty German parka.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to see you, Collier,” he said, shaking his hand. “Meet me in the parlour in five for debriefing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were a few candles left around, which someone, maybe the hotel owner or the staff support, had lit. Grady and Gordo found a card game and some suckers to play with in the corner by the big bay windows. Across the room, Norman sat at a piano bench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve got orders not to cross the Elbe,” Waggoner said, unrolling a map on the table. “But General White’s ordered us personally to go down to the bridge at six klicks to the south and secure it so we’re ready when we do get the order. In the meantime, we’re going to pull your unit back on mechanical for two days. You’re behind on maintenance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir,” Don said. The latest Fury was fresh from the factory, and had nothing to fix; Waggonner had to be feeling guilty about sending them to defend that crossroad alone and was giving them a few days off to be nice.  They really were stopped at the Elbe.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman started to play the piano. At the table, some of the men playing cards looked up, and seemed to forget their game for a moment. Don looked over at Waggonner, and incredibly, he had a bit of a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, he looked back over at Don. “The Soviets are almost in Berlin. Once they take the city, we’ll be headed in to meet them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not going in ourselves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waggonner shrugged. “It’s going to be a messy fight. It’s a big city, and the Krauts won’t have anywhere to go, so they’re going to fight like hell. We’ll let Ivan take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don nodded. The thought of waiting for someone else to finish the fight rankled him, but at the same time, he was tired of it; something had changed for him since Red had been killed and Bible had been injured. Before, part of him had genuinely thought they were all going to make it through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what your soldier there is playing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waggonner nodded, watching Norman play; the other men had stopped even pretending they were still playing cards, except for Gordo, who was using the opportunity to sneak a look at the other guy’s hand. “I think it’s Debussy,” Waggonner said. “It’s a pretty tune.  He’s not bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like classical music, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My daughter plays,” Waggonner said, rolling up his maps. “She’s ten this January. I’ve heard her picking this one out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would explain the slightly misty smile; Don had thought that Waggonner was just a hard-as-nails career captain, but of course the man had a life at home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get some rest,” Waggonner said as he stood up. “Don’t share this around, but this is probably the end of the road for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo had a nose like a bloodhound for working women, even in a small town, so Don wasn’t surprised that after a day checking the treads and fluids and bakes in motor pool, Gordo and Grady hightailed it out of there with a handful of condoms and Norman in a headlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You coming?” Grady asked, while Norman attempted to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, I’ll stay here. This bogey’s been acting off,” Don said, even though that could definitely wait until tomorrow. The motor pool was quiet now, and he didn’t mind the time to himself; it would be the first time in years, almost, away from those two for more than a couple minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo and Grady took off, taking the kid with them. Eventually he did manage to escape, but he didn’t run off, and instead tagged along behind them until they disappeared down a cross street. Don figured the kid was in for a shock, going from that pretty girl Emma to whoever the town whore was in whatever town they were in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don was lucky that his crew just thought he was picky in his women, and he guessed he was lucky he didn’t seem like a stereotypical queer. There were bigger things to worry about, anyways, and what with all the killing he figured he was going to hell anyways, so being a so-called sexual pervert was the least of his concerns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t give it another thought until he was in the room they all shared, trying to read a tattered copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Forever Amber</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d traded for back in Reims, when Norman came stumbling back into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back already, Private Norman?” Don asked, amused despite himself. “Was she that good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shook his head. He wandered over the sideboard, fiddling with the lace cover on it; he didn’t seem to actually be looking at anything. “It wasn’t like I thought it would be,” he said after a moment, letting the cover drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don put his book down. “Yeah? You thought it would be romantic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a line of guys waiting their turn,” Norman said, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. “This older woman, she, she made sure we were putting on the rubbers, and then each guy had five minutes. And I saw the girl for a moment when they tagged the next guy in, and she was just laying there, she was staring at the ceiling while the guy was on top of her, and… and I just left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like how they do it when the sailors come in on shore leave,” Don remarked. “At least they’ll be making some money out of it, think of it that way. It could be a lot worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just don’t…” Norman said, trailing off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don had wondered, when he’d told Norman to take that German girl into the bedroom, if Norman was a virgin. He’d figured at least the kid might relax a little if he got laid. “You didn’t visit the brothels in London?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, we were, we were only there for a day,” Norman said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was funny that visiting a whorehouse seemed to rattle Norman as much as the skirmishes they’d been in. “You’ll have to get used to it, if you want it while we’re in Europe. Or you’ll have to pay more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you - done that?” Norman asked, finally glancing up at Don. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Don said after a moment. “I don’t like to pay for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman nodded. “Figured you wouldn’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don gave him a sharp look, but Norman was looking back down at the quilt on the bed, fingers tightening for a moment on the edge of the mattress. His eyes flickered over, barely looking at Don, the tips of his eyelashes burnished gold in the low light of the oil lamp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re not going to pay for it either, you’re going to have to get better at charming the ladies,” Don said, picking up his book, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that Norman was attempting to put the moves on him. “You looked like you were going to faint when you went back with that German girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” Norman said softly. “I didn’t, with her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, faint?” Don put his book down again. “No. With a nice girl like that? The fuck is wrong with you, Norman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked over at him again, mouth pressed into a thin line. “It wouldn’t have been right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don shook his head. “You feel like that, you’re not going to be able to get with any girls in Germany.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess not,” Norman said, still looking at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don gave him a sharp look. “What, you want tips?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On what?” Norman hadn’t looked away yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the problem you apparently have with the fine women of Germany.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if it’s a problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don gave up; Norman was clearly up to something. “Kid, what are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess I thought I was talking to you,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don almost felt angry. Norman had brass balls, making a pass at him; or maybe he was stupid enough to think this was a good idea. “I ought to beat the piss out of you,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You already have,” Norman said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don wracked his brain, trying to think of what Norman was talking about. He guessed he’d shoved him around a little when Norman had missed the kid with the Panzerfaust, and he’d been too rough with him, convincing him to shoot the Kraut. If Norman thought that counted as being beaten up, he’d never been beaten up, although maybe someone should; the kid needed toughening up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those weren’t beatings,” Don said. “Most guys would, in case you’re thinking of making a habit out of this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?” Don asked. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, uncertainty seeped into Norman's expression. He looked away, color rising high on his cheekbones, and kicked his boots back. “I’m, I thought. Nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck do you want, Norman?” Don said. “What are you trying to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can go,” Norman said, standing up.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don could have beaten the shit out of Norman. Most guys Norman tried this shit on would. He could picture it so easily; he’d just have to pop Norman once in the jaw and he’d be down for the count.  When Don was sixteen he’d started winning bar fights instead of losing them. When he was nineteen he’d been in jail, and had chosen the army over serving his time. It was why Don was so good at being a tank commander, and so bad at everything else; violence came easy to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get the fuck out of here,” Don said, and Norman went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, their fourth in Arneburg, the longest since they’d stuck in one place in the whole offensive, the Colonel’s messenger came for Don in a Jeep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was told you speak German,” the messenger said, staring up the side of the tank with an evaluating expression. There wasn’t much to do, being as the Fury was in almost perfect condition, so mostly they were sitting around on her and smoking. Norman was careful to keep his distance from Don, which was easy enough, since the boys were ribbing him mercilessly about his early departure last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” Don said, shuffling off the tank. Even he knew how to behave when the brass came for him. “What’s this about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s mouth was in a grim line when he walked him to the car. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was right; Don wouldn’t have believed him, once he saw the camp for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s true, what they’re saying on the radios about the deaths camps that the Soviets found,” Don said to the messenger, when they finally were driving back.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don couldn’t tell if it had been an hour or a couple of hours. He’d given away all his smokes to the women in the camp, given them the few ration crackers he had on him. It had been a pitiful gesture, but they’d been happy about the cigarettes, at least. Don didn’t want to think about it, what he’d seen, so he focused on that memory, the old woman who had smiled a bit when she smelled the tobacco. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel wanted him to talk to the women, to figure out why they were there. Most of them were Polish Jews, but some were gypsies, and the rest political prisoners. There wasn't much of a reason beyond that.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” the messenger said, and then after a moment, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed to talk about it. “They’ve found huge ones. The Soviets found one they said had thousands of people. They must be everywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Don said, grinding his palms against his eyes until he saw sparks. “I need a smoke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The messenger handed over his pack, and Don lit two up, handing the guy the other. It took a while, because his hands were shaking, and his lighter kept going out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I keep thinking about the Olympics,” the man said. “Everyone protesting against those. I thought they were crazy. But they weren’t, were they? They were just the only ones paying attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don remembered that; he’d heard about it, anyways. There wasn’t much to do other than talk back then, since there was no work. His family had lost the farm, and his dad went off to work in one of the alphabet agencies when Don was eleven, never to be heard from again.They been poor enough that Don hadn’t eaten meat until he was sixteen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought about that in years; he remembered the starving migrants now, camped out on the edge of town. He and his brothers had thrown rocks at them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess so,” Don said; it was all blending together in his head now, the skeletal women, the listless migrant children with distended bellies, and he took a drag on his cigarette and bit his cheek hard, trying to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In four days, the war was over. The news came in rapid succession, that the Soviets had taken the Reichstag, that Hitler had killed himself, that first the German army in Belgium and then in the rest of Europe had surrendered. They got the news that Doenitz had formally surrendered on eighth.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t look very happy,” Grady said to him as he poured out glasses of truly awful gin for each of them. They were in the dining room of the hotel, drinking out of crystal whiskey tumblers. Outside the sun was setting and men were setting off flares, firing off their sidearms, and whooping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don wasn’t happy. He could barely sleep at night, as much as he tried not to think about the camp, and just when he could have shot a bunch of Krauts, they surrendered. Four years of fighting, and now it was over, just like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure I’m happy,” Don said. “I’m just pissed my bottle of brandy from Courseulles-sur-Mer got blown up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll drink to that,” Gordo said, tossing back his glass of gin and beckoning for another one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re supposed to drink them together, asshole,” Grady said, but poured out another measure of the gin, slopping some over the edge. “Let’s go. Norman, glasses up. To the Fury.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To the Fury,” they all echoed, tossing their drinks back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone was firing off a fifty-cal in the courtyard. Even the officers were sharing bottles; MPs were standing to the side, arms folded. Hell, the Germans were getting drunk with them. There were women out in the courtyard with dusty bottles of beer, handing them out to soldiers, their light laughter carrying on the afternoon breeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck it,” Don said, pouring them all another round. “To Bible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To Bible,” they said. They’d gotten a letter that day saying he’d lost the leg, but kept his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’s stomach heaved a little after that shot. He hadn’t been drunk in years, but fuck, if there was ever a time. Boyd would have had something to say about Don drinking again. Don had talked to him about his drunken past, one of those long nights outside of Tillet when they were shivering the tank, how he found and lost God. Boyd has always been steadfast in his encouragement.  He poured himself another glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grady was giving him a look. “What?” Don snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you were a teetotaller,” Grady said, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“War’s over, isn’t it,” Don said. “Are you fuckers really not going to drink with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll fucking drink with you, calm down,” Grady said, picking up his glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy, I think I see my wife,” Gordo said, eyes fixed on a blonde woman talking to a group of soldiers outside. He picked up the bottle of gin and got up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grady raised his eyebrows, craning his neck to see the women, and then he said, “Can’t argue with that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swiped a couple more glasses and followed Gordo outside. Don raised his arms in exasperation as the door slammed shut behind them. “I’m trying to have a nice moment with my team, assholes,” he called at their backs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the table, Norman looked at Don for a moment, then looked away, rubbing his neck. He got up without saying anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Norman,” Don began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked back at him. He was looking better these days. He carried himself differently now too, for all that it had only been a few weeks; some of the softness gone from his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don didn’t know what he wanted to say. After a moment, Norman shook his head, minutely, and went outside with the other boys, leaving Don sitting at the table. It was quiet inside alone. He swirled the gin in his glass and then downed it, then got up as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordo and Grady had less decency than they pretended to, and took the woman they’d found up to their quarters, effectively shutting Don and Norman out. Don spent the time drinking some rum rations with the other sergeants in the infantry division who were willing to share. Those were bad as well, but Don was pleasantly drunk by the time he staggered up to the room. He banged on the door, but a second later he heard a woman moaning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, take it easy in there,” Don yelled through the door, resting his forehead against it for a moment, but he didn’t get a reply, not that he really expected one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve been like that for hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don looked down; Norman was sitting half-hidden beside a side table, a bottle of beer in his hands. “Hope they’re paying her for the trouble. Why are you sitting on the floor?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seemed safer than the room,” Norman said, but he got to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True,” Don said, rapping on the door for the next room over. There was no reply, so he opened the door. The room inside was dark, filled with crates of ammunition, and plastered with the same flowery wallpaper. “Figures that they'd cram us in one room and use a whole other for storage. Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was amazing how much better he felt, being drunk. It even made being alone in a dark room with Norman okay. Norman followed him inside, looking around. He was moving like he still had a rifle in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down, kid, take it easy. War’s over,” Don said, fishing in his pocket for his pack of smokes and offering it to Norman. The kid took one, perching on one of the slip-covered chairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dom lit his and then offered the lighter to Norman. Even in fading blue light, he could see the corner of Norman’s mouth twitch up. “Nice lighter,” he said, running his thumb over the silver-embossed swastika. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Don said. He sat on the bed, sending up a small cloud of dust. “Got it back in Caen. Probably going to get some funny looks stateside, though, pulling that out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You guys fought there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Don said. “Yeah, we did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cherry on Norman’s cigarette flared briefly as he inhaled. “And now it’s over. You ran out of war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don looked at him, confused, and Norman added, “It was something you said, the first day I joined the crew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Don said. “Was a big day for you, huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Of course. Why, it wasn’t for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was, but not because they’d almost died at the crossroad, or any of the bullshit with the Tiger; it was because a German soldier had shot down through the bow gunner’s hatch and blew Red’s face off that morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, it was a day,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Norman echoed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don looked at him for a while, smoking his cigarette. Norman was a good-looking kid; not his usual type, and not something he usually let himself think, but hell, the war was over now and Don was still alive, despite his best efforts. Screwing around with a replacement wasn’t nearly as bad of an idea as signing up to United States Army, anyways. <br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman was still smiling a little when he finally looked up at Don, but it faded when he saw Don was watching. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don shook his head. Everything was soft and fuzzy, the edges worn off. “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked at him for a while, then shook his head and looked down at his cigarette, fiddling with it. “Thought you wanted to beat the piss out of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well,” Don said, “I can want more than one thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman’s eyes flicked back up to meet his. After a moment, slowly, he stood up out of the chair, the legs dragging on the wooden floor. He came and sat next to Don on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don reached over and stubbed out his cigarette on one of the ammunition crates before turning to face Norman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman was looking up at the wall, apparently studying the sun-faded posies print. “You’re drunk,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not?” Don asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I stopped after…” Norman trailed off, meeting his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don sighed and shifted, leaning back against the pillows, letting his knees fall open. “Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second he thought Norman wasn’t going to, and his skin prickled at the thought; he knew how easy it was to wrestle Norman into place.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a second that stretched on, like a long pour in a glass of whiskey, Norman moved closer to Don. It was an awkward position, him trying to angle towards Don without committing to actually touching him. After a moment Don decided to make it easy for him and took Norman’s collar in his fist, dragging him forward until their mouths collided.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a while since he’d kissed anyone. Norman’s lips were dry, and he tasted like the lager he’d been drinking. It was an injustice, that out of everyone in the world, Don was the one who got to have something as simple and pleasant as a kiss. He got his hand around the side of Norman's face, pressing his thumb over the sharp cut of his jaw, feeling the scratch of Norman's short hair on the pads of his fingers.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman’s elbow collapsed, and they broke apart for a moment. Norman stayed down and rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Hm,” he said, and then unbelievably, he laughed a little. </span>
  <span>“Sorry. It’s just… it’s not that different from a woman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sure if I should be offended,” Don drawled, letting himself sink lower into the pillows, running his hand up Norman’s arm and onto his collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought it would be different, is all,” Norman said, sitting up straight. “It’s scratchier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don rubbed his hand over his jaw. He’d shaved, but not in both directions, the way you did before a date. “You’ve got high standards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman bit his lip, the smile dropping off his face. “Are you...well, is this…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It figured that Norman wanted to talk instead. “We can discuss it later to your satisfaction, Private Norman,” Don said, pulling him back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was better than Don had thought it might be, in the end. Norman was young and inexperienced enough to be enthusiastic about simple things. It was downright gratifying, seeing him flush in the low light, his mouth drop open a little when Don got his hand down his pants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’s first time was when he was fourteen and the neighbour’s widow had basically pinned him down, but his first time with another man was at sixteen, when Joshua Norton from Pine County had sucked his dick after they’d finished digging holes for telephone poles, working for the Rural Utilities Service. Don had felt shocky for days after, like his skin was too tight, just remembering it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if Norman was even queer, or if the whores of Germany scared him enough that getting a handy from his sergeant was a preferable option. Don lit up another cigarette and offered the lighter to Norman, who was laying beside him in the bed, shirtless and thinking so hard Don could almost hear the gears grinding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Norman murmured, leaning over to let Don light his smoke for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to relax,” Don told him. “It’s nothing. Just lending each other a hand, is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You usually neck like that with fellas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not polite to kiss and tell,” Don said, ashing his cigarette and looking over at Norman properly. “Listen, kid, don’t worry about it - this doesn’t make you a fruit or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman met his eyes. In the dark, he was only lit around the edges with the dim silvery light of the moon. “Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, a fruit?” Don uttered a short bark of a laugh, and took another drag on his cigarette. He was still a little drunk, and torn between the urge to roll over and kiss Norman again, and to smack him in his swollen mouth. “Why, want to put me in for a blue ticket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s what you get if you’re a homosexual,” Don said. “It’s an administrative discharge. They put you in a </span>
  <span>psych</span>
  <span>iatric hospital. One of the men I went to boot camp with, he got put in for one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman didn’t say anything. Don sighed. “If you’re going to worry about it, go get me a drink. You’re ruining my mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman rolled out of bed, pulling on his pants. Don lazily watched the stretch of his back, the small muscles around his shoulderblades flexing as he did up his belt. “You got a bottle somewhere?” Norman said, looking over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, in my jacket,” Don said, not moving an inch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman fished around in Don’s pile of clothes for a moment, coming out with a bottle of brandy that he studied, brows wrinkling. “Where’s this from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“France. Pour yourself a glass.” Don could afford to be magnanimous in victory, now that the war was over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought your brandy got blown up,” Norman said, uncorking the bottle and going over to the sideboard where two dusty glasses were turned upside-down. He blew the dust off and then poured out two slugs, the sound loud in the quiet room, and brought them over to Don, handing him a glass. His body bore the fading marks of recent combat, bruises along his ribs, cuts and burns on his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don sniffed the glass and nearly sighed out loud. “I got two bottles. The other one got blown up. Those animals in our tank wouldn’t have appreciated this fine vintage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weren’t you saving that one to share?” Norman asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don was surprised he knew about that; Don must have told him, but couldn’t remember when. “Yeah, but I was saving this one for when I was back on American soil. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prost.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Prost</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Norman asked but he clinked glasses with Don and took a dutifully sip anyways, sitting down on the bed next to Don’s legs. Don had the urge to pull him down, kiss him again; he shoved that thought down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s German,” Don said. “It means cheers. Congrats, Norman. You survived the war.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1948</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It was 3am, the bars were closed, and Don had decided it was his last pickup of the night. After this he was going home, having a nightcap, and looking for a new job in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d figured driving for Checker cabs after he got home from Europe wouldn’t be too different from driving the Fury, and that sitting down would be a nice change of pace; but at least he didn’t have to drive around the Germans, he was allowed to shoot them if they pissed him off, and sitting all night was hell on his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where to?” Don asked, not bothering to adjust his mirror to get a good look at his passengers. It was three young men, the college type, spilling out from one of the many taverns in the South Loop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“57th and Ellis, pops,” one of the kids said. “Norms, where are you headed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Greenwood, but I can just walk from Snell,” the one directly behind Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don felt a jolt of recognition, but he didn’t look up. He hoped maybe he was wrong, and if he wasn’t, he sure as hell didn’t want to run into Norman again like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a fast drive from the loop to the university, just around ten minutes of listening to them drunkenly yap at each other, and soon he was dropping them out in front of the old ivy-covered halls at the universities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Norman, you coming?” one of them said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get the fare today,” Norman said. “Going to get the lift home after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lazy,” the same boy said with a laugh, prompting the other one to shush him and drag him by the arm toward the quiet and dark building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman reached out and closed the door to the cab, sealing them in the silent car. Don steeled himself; he was a grown man, and couldn’t be hiding away like this. He turned the mirror and found Norman, looking steadily at him, the hint of a smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unexpectedly, aside from the shame, Don was happy to see him. “I thought it might be you,” he remarked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman grinned. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> you,” he said. “I couldn’t quite tell. How the hell are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years had almost made an adult of Norman; he looked like any other affluent young student in his shirt and tie, loosened from the heat of the bar. The scar on his neck was white now, still raised on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you,” Don said, and meant it. “You look good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do too,” Norman said, gaze briefly dipping. “How’s driving one of these things?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as good as driving the Fury,” Don said. “You’re a college man now? Did you get in the G.I. Bill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I squeaked in just before all those boys in Japan came back. I didn’t get released from guard duty until September, did you know? I got put helping Hamburg clean up. I think I had the fewest points out of almost anybody in Europe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you studying?” Don asked, putting the car back into gear and pulling out, heading towards Greenwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Engineering,” Norman said. “I’m hoping to specialize in mechanical engineering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good for you,” Don said, some of his good mood evaporating. The softness in Norman really was him being upper middle-class to the bone, and it figured he’d land on his feet after this; a G.I. Bill, a pretty blonde wife, and lots of money in his future, while Don got fat and withered away driving this cab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the radios,” Norman said. “Before that I didn’t know what I wanted to do for work, but that sort of… Do you remember the radio in the Fury?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don, unfortunately, remembered almost everything about the war. The bad memories had bundled up and come along with him. “Yeah. Where in Greenwood are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m actually at B-J,” Norman said, hesitating, and then asked, “I thought maybe we could go have a drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The bars are all closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you could come over,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To your dorm room?” Don asked, meeting Norman’s eyes in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The years had made Norman a little less anxious, but only a little. “Well, maybe we could go to your place,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’s place was a kitchenette in the Near North Side, a depressing enough place for a man in his forties without introducing one of his bright young former privates to it. “It’s not a great place for a drink,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don,” Norman said. “You don’t want to catch up? Nobody’s heard from you since the war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep in touch with the boys?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I visited Gordo, what, just a month ago? He lives here too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don had written a short letter to Bible, hoping to meet while they were in London, but they’d been put on a transport almost as soon as they arrived; and after that, he hadn’t seen much point. He wasn’t much of a letter writer. They’d been closer, closer than brothers, but none of them were the kind of friends that could exist in civilian life. Except apparently they were, with Norman - a replacement, of all people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One drink,” Don said, cranking the wheel around. “Then I can drive you home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He caught a flash of dimples in the rearview mirror and nearly changed his mind. If he’d brought home all his troubles from the war, he sure as hell didn’t need Norman to come along to add to the mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchenette he rented was on the ground floor, with one tiny, lonely window set slightly crooked in the plaster walls; he hadn’t bothered to put the Murphy bed away, and there was barely space to move between that and the stove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked around when Don switched on the lamp, but his face didn’t betray anything. He just shrugged off his jacket and said, “You still drink, these days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don still drank too much, was the problem. He threw his keys into their bowl and hung both their coats on the hook. “I’ve got whiskey if you want it, coffee if you don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whiskey’s fine,” Norman said, hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit,” Don said, gesturing at the bed and turning to where he kept the bottle, on top of the icebox. Norman’s presence made him uneasy. “You want any water in it? And keep it down, my landlady sleeps the floor above us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neat’s fine,” Norman said. Don could hear the creak of the frame as he lowered himself onto the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don poured the whiskey into two mugs and turned, handing one to Norman, who took a large sip and winced a little. It wasn’t very good whiskey. Don leaned against the stove and watched him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think maybe the inside of the Fury was a little bigger,” Norman said, looking around again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don cracked a grin, surprised. “Hell, it might have been a little more comfortable, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naw, it must be good, to have a place of your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it suits me, anyways,” Don said. “Don’t need much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just driving cabs these days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Don said, and thought about telling his joke that at least in the war, he didn’t have to drive the Germans around; he took a sip of his whiskey instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you were from down South originally,” Norman said, looking up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m from Kentucky,” Don said. “I was supposed to switch trains at Chicago. Decided to stay instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got family down there still?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You come over here to talk about my family?” Don asked, sitting down next to Norman on the bed. It had been a long time since he’d thought about making it with anyone, but having Norman there on his bed were making the thoughts creep back in. He’d been with just one guy since getting to Chicago. It was too hard, was the thing, because the war hadn’t quite let go of Don yet. The silly softness of life in Chicago irked him. Civilians irked him. The good thing about Norman was that he’d been there; he knew who Don was already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so,” Norman said, swirling his whiskey around. “You got a girl tucked away somewhere in here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, she gets the master bedroom, with the city views, the ensuite with the marble bathtub,” Don said. “How come? You seeing someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Her name’s Allie. She’s one of my friend’s sisters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don was a little disappointed, but it figured as much. A guy like Norman was too tight-laced to make the same mistake more than once. “How’s your friend like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much,” Norman admitted with a smile. “Listen, I’ve been writing Bible, and he’s invited everyone down to his place for Thanksgiving. You should come. I can give him your address, if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, maybe,” Don said. “How’s that bastard doing, anyways?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, good. He’s married Kathy and they have a kid on the way. He’s the pastor at their local church now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good for him,” Don murmured, taking another sip, feeling the burn down his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To church,” Norman said. “I went, when I was back in Pittsburgh with my family, but...I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went to a synagogue,” Don said abruptly. “The Temple Emanu-El. When I was walking by one day, I stopped and went in. I guess I haven’t been to church in a while, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because of the camp?” Norman asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I talked to the rabbi and his wife. She made us tea. They wanted me to come talk to their, uh, congregation about it sometime.” Don fidgeted with his chest pocket. “You still smoke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not so much any more. Allie doesn’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that a no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman grinned, the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes fanning out. “It’s not a no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don lit them two cigarettes off the stove and handed one to Norman, settling back down on the bed on his elbows; he felt a bit looser, now, like it was old times, sitting on top of the Fury shooting the shit. “You been seeing her for long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A couple of months. She’s a real looker. Just eighteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, you’re an old man now,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell, I feel like a fossil,” Norman said, leaning back to mimic his pose, bumping shoulders. “I look at the freshmen and feel like I’m a hundred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hate to break the bad news, kid, but you’ll look twelve until you’re sixty with a face like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to talk to the congregation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, probably. Maybe you should go to church,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allie wants me to,” Norman said, laying down on the bed, contemplating the cracked ceiling. He’d finished his glass of whiskey, but didn’t seem to be in the mood to leave. Don didn’t want him to, not yet. Having him sprawled out on Don’s faded yellow quilt was like indulging in a small, shameful daydream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else does Allie want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman waved his hand, dissipating some of the cigarette smoke above him. “For me to get a good engineering job at her uncle’s firm, to get married, to have three children… No, she’s a good girl. A real great girl. I’m just not...I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don lay down next to him. “Doesn’t sound like a bad life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I know,” Norman said, looking over at him; Don stared up at the ceiling, bringing his cigarette to his mouth. “You ever going to settle down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Don said. “Not my style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not seeing anybody?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you see… I don’t know, do you go out with guys? Things you do with girls. Do you go to the movies? Or dancing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Norman, what the hell kind of question is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just making conversation,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, at four in the morning, after you invite yourself over. Christ,” Don said, sitting up. The soft daydream was gone, replaced with annoyance. He’d forgotten how easily Norman could get under his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman sat up too. “Is it really that bad of a question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Don said. “Christ, I don’t know. I guess other guys do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it the same, between two guys? They go on dates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so,” Don said. His experience was limited to some hasty cruising at athletic clubs, furtive moments at Fort Dix, and a few bars over the years. “Some guys I talked to, they’re basically married. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shrugged. He was watching Don again, too closely. Don exhaled and said, “Whatever you’re after, just spit it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me stay here,” Norman said. “Just for tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid,” Don began, and then trailed off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try not to think about it, the hotel. But I do,” Norman said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don thought about it too, sometimes. He didn’t jerk off to it or anything, but it was a nice memory. Sometimes he wished he was still in Germany. Things had been simple there. Now everything was so unendurably bland, and the worst part was, he didn’t care. He felt like he'd been hollowed out by the war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman bit his lip. “Just… is that okay? Can I stay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don sighed. If he was a good man he’d send Norman home to his girlfriend, back to his normal life, rather than confusing him even more; but this was the first time he’d felt anything other than grey resignation in a while, and he wasn’t really a good man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. You can stay,” he said, and got up to turn off the light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don made the mistake of thinking that would get things out of Norman’s system and that after that, he’d never see Norman again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead Norman gave out his address. Don began getting letters from the boys, distribution letters for the 2nd army. Two weeks later he came home from a morning shift and found Norman chatting with one of his neighbours on the porch, hiding from the late October rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have class?” Don asked, resigned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking we could grab a drink,” Norman said. “I’ll buy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell, I’m coming too, in that case,” his neighbour said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, stay put,” Don said, pointing at his neighbour. He’d tell Norman to fuck off at the bar, when they got there; no point making a scene. “You, let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a local down the street, a quiet Italian place, and Don ordered them two whiskeys and sat at a table in the back, watching the old Italians that seemed to live there shuffling around the pool table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman sipped his whiskey, looking around. It was pretty empty, being the middle of the day on Thursday, and it was a bit of a dive regardless. Don sat back, watching him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, why’d you come out here?” Don asked eventually, drumming his finger on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shrugged. “Wanted to have a drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don hated that Norman was forcing him into this conversation, that maybe he could have avoided this with some pride. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This?” Norman repeated, a line folding between his eyebrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This. You and me,” Don said, gesturing between them. “It’s not anything. Look, it was nice to see you again, but you’ve got your life and I’ve got mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s no reason to not have a drink together every now and then,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Norman, it’s not going anywhere. We’re not friends. I'm almost twice your age. So whatever idea you’ve got about us, just let it go, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman put his drink down. “Are you kidding? What, you do this kind of thing with a lot of guys? Seems pretty friendly to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don glanced around, but the few people in the bar didn’t seem to be paying attention; there was a sports match on the radio in Italian, and the rain was loud outside. He lowered his voice and learned forwards. “Listen, Norman, I get that you’re confused because you’re getting off for the first time, but this queer shit’s not for you. You need to forget this and move on. And stop coming around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t just tell me…” Norman faltered, and then redoubled. “So what do you think this is? Just... confusion on my part?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, kid, it was fun, but that’s all it was, all right? So yeah, I forgot about it, and you should too.” Don leaned back in his chair, studying his face. It seemed absurd that Norman could keep this softness, that he would trust Don with something this close to him; the world should have beaten it out of him long ago, so he wouldn’t have sat there and made Don hurt him. Don would never have argued with someone about something like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so…” Norman trailed off, looking at him. He was pale, and Don unwilling remembered how he looked when he’d been shot in the field. “God. There’s just nothing there, is there? Was it the war? Or were you always like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up,” Don said. “You were in that tank for two weeks. What the hell do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bartender looked up at the two of them from where he was polishing the glasses. The two men playing pool looked up as well. Don had spoken too loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman took out his wallet, fished out a couple bucks, and laid them with precision on the the table, the kind of controlled movement that was born out of wanting to do violence instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a good life,” he said to Don, and stood up, shrugging into his coat. At the entryway door he took his hat and put it on, and then pushed through the door, gently, letting it fall closed behind him as he looked across the street and stepped out into the grey rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don knocked back the rest of his whiskey. After a moment  he knocked back the rest of Norman’s too. “Yeah, not likely,” he said to himself, and then put a couple dollars down too, and left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night he dreamed about the dying horses in Normandy, for the first time in a few months, and woke up to his landlady banging her broom against the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1949</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Care for some champagne, darling?” Summer asked, draping herself along Don’s back; he’d gotten wise to her and begun wearing patterned shirts when he went to the bar, so her face paint wouldn’t stain his nice white ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I’m not drinking these days,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to celebrate, though,” she said, pouting dramatically. The back of the bar was mirrored, and Don could see her reflection in between the bottles; white faux-fur shrug, a smear of bright lipstick and dark eyeliner. “It’s a Friday, we’re alive, and the night is young, although we aren’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don toasted her with his soda bottle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re no fun,” she said. “Want to dance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d look like an idiot next to you,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not true,” she retorted, flipping her mass of platinum blonde curls over her broad shoulders; sometimes Don forgot she wasn’t a real girl. She had the mannerisms locked in. He didn’t think he’d recognize her walking down the street as a man. “You’re the most handsome guy in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don gave her a look, and she smiled, giving him a pat on the cheek with her white-gloved hand, settling all six feet of herself on the barstool next to him. “You’re so hard on yourself,” she teased, and then looked out across the dark room. There was a band tonight, and the dance floor was packed. After a moment, Summer whistled. “Then again, maybe you’re not. I think even that one would be up to your standards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Summer made fun of Don a lot for what she thought were his high standards. He didn’t pick up much, even at the bars. They’d fooled around once, but it was awkward enough that by tactic unspoken agreement they’d never done it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don turned a bit on his stool and saw two men talking together, not too far from them. The taller one was a skinny blond, and leaning in to talk into his ear was Norman, swaying a little, a drink in his hand and his cheeks flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don whipped to face the bar, keeping his head down. After a moment, he chanced a look in the bar mirror. Warped as it was, he could see Norman putting his hand on the other man’s arm. Summer didn’t say anything, and when Don looked at her, her drawn-on eyebrows were nearly up off her forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know him,” Don muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Summer said slowly. “Bad breakup?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Don said, and then, “I was just an asshole to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sure you had your reasons,” Summer said. “Should I throw a drink in his face?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Just ignore him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Champagne, please,” Summer said to the bartender, and then to Don, “You really are no fun. I want to throw a drink in someone’s face. Should we say he was an asshole to you instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think he was actually queer,” Don said, staring at Norman in the mirror. The kid definitely looked like it now, looking up at the guy through his eyelashes. Don never saw Norman at any of his usual cruising spots, but he guessed that didn’t mean much, since Don didn’t really go all that often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Darling, you’re staring,” Summer remarked, sipping her champagne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don shook his head, picking up his coke and taking a sip, refocusing his eyes on the bar in front of him. “Just surprised, is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going dancin’,” she said, standing up and shaking out her glittering skirts. “Let me know when you finish brooding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was boring, brooding at the bar alone, which is why Don could tell instantly when Norman came up to the bar beside him. Don stared straight ahead as Norman ordered two gin and tonics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no way Norman hadn’t seen Don. The least he could do was allow Norman to get an insult in. Don turned to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a while,” he said, looking the kid over. Norman had nice clothes, a haircut that looked expensive; he’d probably gotten into one of those engineering jobs now, finished with school. It was hard to see any of the anxious kid in him anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It has,” Norman said evenly, studying him right back. “How’ve you been?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don shrugged, running a finger around the rim of his coke bottle. “Been good. You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Norman said. “Working, now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don nodded. They both watched the bartender, who was filling the glasses up with ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw Boyd, last month,” Don said. “Went down to visit him in Arkansas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I got a letter from him,” Norman said, shifting to face Don a little more. “How’s he doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Don said. It had been good, to see Boyd; the shock of seeing his empty pant leg pinned up neatly above his knee had been brief, and Don had spent most of the time eating his wife’s home-cooked food, playing with Boyd’s pack of toddlers, and smoking cigars on Boyd's porch with him after dinner, talking about theology. “Yeah, he’s doing good. It was good to see him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m having dinner with Gordo and his wife in the next couple of weeks,” Norman said. “If you wanted to come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don couldn’t figure out why Norman was inviting him. “Yeah, that could be good. How’s that old drunk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still drunk,” Norman said, paying for his drinks. He hesitated, looking out the floor, no doubt for that blond man he’d been with, and then looked back at Don. “Hey, I was wondering - did you ever give that talk to the synagogue?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The synagogue?” Don repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said one wanted to you to talk to them. Did you ever do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Don said, a little thrown. “Yeah, a couple months ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman nodded. “I wondered, is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don stared down at the bar. He shouldn’t have told Norman about that, but at the same time, he desperately wanted someone to talk to about it. “It took me a while to work up the nerve,” he admitted. “But...God, I don’t know. Maybe it was a selfish thing to do. But they asked me to, and it was… it was a relief to talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked down at the drink in his hand, then at the floor, then at Don. “You want this?” he asked, thrusting it towards Don.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Don said. “Don’t drink anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That a recent thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Recent enough,” Don said. “Turns out I’m still a mean asshole when I drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a mean asshole anyways,” Norman said, and then winced. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be,” Don said. “Do you want to sit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman took one last look at the dance floor, then sat down next to him, clutching both drinks. After a moment, he took a long swig of one, and then said, “I thought this would go different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How so?” Don asked. He hadn’t thought he would ever see Norman again. Out of everything it wasn’t something that kept him up at night, but it didn’t make him good to think about how he’d treated the kid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I would hit you, or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Don said. “Been in many fights lately?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Norman said glumly, taking another long gulp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can hit me if you want,’ Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I’ll take you up on that later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s that guy you’re with?” Don asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” Norman said, wincing as he finished his first drink in one long gulp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two … seeing each other?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not with that girl anymore?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allie?” Norman laughed a little. “Not for a long time now. She’s engaged to a doctor now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don stared at his empty coke bottle. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you sorry about?” Norman was slamming back the next drink like it was going to run away from him. “She’s going to be happier with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don figured that was fair, as a girl would probably be happier with a guy that didn’t step out on her to queer bars. “Do you come here often?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman grinned at him, eyes crinkling up. “No. I usually go to places closer to the loop, when I do go. Don't want to get caught in a raid. John wanted to come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a long time, interest stirred in Don’s gut. They locked gazes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman dropped his first, knocking back some of the gin. “Fuck. I really didn’t come over to chat. I should go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don didn’t say anything, just watched him. Norman’s lips were wet, shining in the dim light, and Don remembered him in the dim light in German, gasping when Don touched him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never told you this,” Norman said. “The first day I was in the Fury, I must have hallucinated it, but I kept living the same day over and over. I must have lived that day a dozen times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Don asked, thrown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shrugged and finished his second drink. “I just wanted someone else to know. It had to have been a hallucination, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don watched him stand up. “What happened in the other days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We died a lot,” Norman said. “One time I accidentally poisoned myself in the Nazi house. I got arrested another time. One time you gave me a handjob.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman met his eyes. “Don.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a bad idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Don said, but didn’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to get out of here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about your date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman shrugged and pushed his barstool in. “Fuck him. Do you want to, or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Don said. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman took him to his place, a nice suite of rooms in a five-story walkup in River North. As soon as they got inside the door Norman turned on Don and pressed him against the wall, kissing him with a single-minded intensity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don had figured Norman would have insulted him, or thrown a punch, since the kid clearly still had an axe to grind, but Don didn’t mind solving it this way. He pulled Norman in close, hiking his leg up on his hip and grinding against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman knocked his head against Don’s shoulder, groaning. “You’re a fucking asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stumbled into Norman’s bedroom; Don didn’t see much of it in the dark, and he was more focused on getting off Norman’s pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’you want to fuck me?” Norman asked, falling backwards onto his bed. Even by the dim orange glow of the streetlights, he had a fierce look on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don hesitated, running his hand up the back of Norman’s leg. “You done that before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” Don asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman sighed and started squirming away. “I can always go back and find someone else who will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up,” Don said, leaning in and pinning Norman’s hands down; he felt hot all over, just imaging it, and if Norman was doing it to get some kind of revenge that was none of his business. “Where’s your lube?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lube?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, maybe it was some of Don’s business. “Jesus. Should I just feel you up and give you a kiss goodnight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman looked good, flushed red with anger, eyes snapping. “Fuck off. Just do it if you’re going to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax,” Don said, getting off him. “I’ll still fuck you. Get on your stomach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman didn’t have anything in his bathroom, but in the kitchen Don found some oil, which wasn’t ideal but would do in a pinch; he’d done with worse before. He came back and stopped in the doorway. Norman had flipped onto his stomach obediently. He made a nice picture like that, tense as he was through his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don tossed the bottle of oil beside Norman’s head, settling in by his legs and giving him a light slap. “How do you want it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just do it,” Norman grumbled, muffled into his blankets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Flip over,” Don said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you make up your mind,” Norman began, shifting over, and cutting himself off with a gasp when Don pulled him into place and got a hand around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop fucking talking,” Don said, and then swallowed him down, fumbling for the bottle of oil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman didn’t say anything, which was good; Don liked the act of doing this, but it always felt a little subservient, which he didn’t like. Norman’s hand inched towards his head and Don slapped it away with his oily hand. After that, Norman kept his hands to himself, even when Don got his fingers slicked up started to finger him open; he just inhaled sharply when Don got a second finger in and crooked it forwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don figured that was enough, after that; his dick with throbbing, and his jaw was starting to hurt. “You got rubbers?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit - in the nightstand,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get on your knees,” Don said, fishing around in the drawer while Norman scrambled up. He got one on, shuffled behind Norman, and squeezed the back of Norman’s neck before running his hand down the smooth grooves of his back. “You look good like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Norman spat out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me if it hurts,” Don said, starting to ease himself in, gripping hard on Norman’s hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman didn’t say anything, but his ears were a brilliant red and he dropped his forehead onto his arm, hissing a little. Don stroked down his back again. “Doing okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just finish it already,” Norman said through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a sweet talker,” Don said, pressing forward. He draped himself along Norman’s back, reaching forward to take hold of Norman’s flagging erection. “You think about this before? Bending over for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Norman said. Don dropped a kiss on the back of his neck, quick enough that Norman couldn’t headbutt him, and started rocking forwards, feeling some of the rigidity leaving Norman’s body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it,” Don said, feeling Norman’s dick twitch in his hand. “Fuck, you feel good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Norman made a muffled noise. He’d been biting his forearm, but now he pushed back a little tentatively, getting onto his elbows. His wrist had the deep imprint of his teeth scored into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You good?” Don asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just fuck me already,” Norman said, glancing back. “Or do you need to catch your breath first?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don couldn’t help it; that startled a quick laugh out of him. “You’re a piece of work, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look who’s talking,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don dropped a quick kiss on his shoulderblade, figuring Norman couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, and then began fucking into him steadily, hips slapping against him, loud in the quiet room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a long time since Don had done this with anyone; even just a couple minutes of that was enough to get him close. He bit his lip hard, trying to keep it together. “Turn around,” he said, pulling out all the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman was flushed all the way down to his chest, fully hard, and still pissed off. “Just pick a fucking direction already,”  he grumbled, turning over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don got between his legs, pulling one up around his hip, and pushed back inside him. “Quit yapping,” he said, and then gave into the impulse that had been nagging him and bent down to kiss him, filthy and open-mouthed, before starting to fuck him hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman’s hands came up, threading through his hair and pulling him in hard. His teeth caught Don in the lip, and Don tasted the salt of his blood; he fumbled between them and found Norman’s dick again, jerking him off hard, trying to make him come first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He broke the kiss and buried his face in Norman’s neck, inhaling the sharp smell of his sweat. “You feel so fucking good,” he said against his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking stop,” Norman panted, finally sweetening up, digging his heel into Don’s back; Don bit his lip, hard, and was rewarded when Norman moaned and clamped down around him, arching up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Don swore, pulling out and stripping off the rubber. It took just a few strokes before he was came across Norman’s flushed chest, his vision going a little fuzzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, asshole,” Norman said, too breathless to have much bite. Don wiped his hand off on Norman’s belly too and then flopped down beside him, panting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman was quiet for a moment, and then he reached over Don to the nightstand, pulling out a pack of smokes. “Want one?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Don said, although he didn’t smoke much anymore. “Got a lighter in my vest, there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He admired the view as Norman bent over to fumble around with the pile of clothes on the floor, eventually finding the silver lighter in the pocket of his vest. He glanced back at Don, meeting his eyes. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Don said. He'd been remembering the hotel for a moment, the drink of brandy they'd shared. Norman came back to sit beside him, lighting first Don’s, then his own cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember this,” Norman said, turning the lighter over in his hands. “Do people ask you about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some,” Don said, taking in a long drag off the cigarette and feeling content down to his bones. “I tell ‘em I bought it at a pawn shop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody ever assumes I was in the war,” Norman said, handing him back the lighter. “I guess I look too young. When the guys at work tell me about how many Nazis they killed, I just smile and nod.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got a job at a glass factory now,” Don said. “Way the guys tell it, they would’ve marched on Berlin in a week if they went over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman snorted, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Of course. You listen to the engineers, they think Patton was slow, getting through the Saar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don tipped his head to grin at him; Norman did the same, and something twisted in Don’s gut, close to longing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don disguised it with a cough. “You still want me to come to Gordo’s, later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course. He was your friend first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t done a good job at keeping up,” Don said. “I was, uh. I was having a hard time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Sokay,” Norman said, studying the filter of his cigarette. “I wasn’t doing too great myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing better now,” Don said. It felt stupid to say out loud. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten anything; the bad memories just came on him less frequently now. Don hesitated, clicking his tongue. He didn’t know how to apologize to Norman, or where to even start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he could read his thoughts, Norman turned to face him, and swiftly, gave him a kiss hard enough to make his lip start bleeding again. “It’s all good,” Norman said. “D’you want some water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Don said, slightly stupefied; Norman rolled out of the bed and went to the kitchen, naked as a jaybird, and Don heard the sink start up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he came back, he was all cleaned up and wearing a pair of pants, with a glass of water for Don. “You can stay here tonight, if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don accepted the glass of water. “I can go if you want me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter to me,” Norman said, picking his clothes up off the floor and beginning to fold them up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay if I stay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Norman said, still avoiding looking at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don dropped his cigarette butt into what smelled like an old mug of coffee on the nightstand table. “Hey. Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Norman shuffled over to him, and Don pulled him in, giving him a kiss; his heart was beating high in his throat, and he tried to convey it, the apology in it. When they broke apart, Don pressed his thumb into Norman’s cheek a little; he was sorry for everything, and the way he’d always thought about shooting Norman in Germany, the way he'd pushed him around. “Can I stay?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Norman said softly. “Yeah, you can stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1950</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“How did the meeting go?” Don asked, when he heard the door slam. He was reading the paper at the kitchen table, and as he skimmed through the article about the UN passing Resolution 83, he was beginning to get a bad feeling about Norman meeting with his old army recruiter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman took off his hat and put it on the table with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Good, I guess. They want me to come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As what, a clerk typist?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As a lieutenant with the engineer corp,” Norman said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and coming to sit across from Don, kicking his feet out to tangle with Don’s. “They know I got my degree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to be an officer now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said I’d think about it,’ Norman said. “They’re sending troops over, to take back the peninsula from the commies. I should, shouldn’t I? I swore an oath to defend our country.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think this has much to do with our country,” Don said. “Can you point at Korea on a map?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I can now,” Norman said, sipping his coffee, refusing to rise to the bait. “We’ve got to stand up to the Soviets, don’t we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don swiped the cup of coffee; Norman usually didn’t take it black, which meant he must have been thinking hard enough to ignore the taste. Don got up to get the milk out of the fridge and added a splash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Norman said when Don handed it back. “What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those that can fight have to defend those who can’t,” Don said, pouring himself a cup as well. “Just don’t think it has to be you. You’ve done your bit, haven’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I fought for four weeks, Don. I spent longer in bootcamp than I did in combat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sat in silence for a while. It was pouring rain outside, an early summer shower, misty enough that Don could barely see the river through the windows. He’d ended up staying through Sunday; usually he just visited Norman over Friday night on the weekend, but his rooms were nice enough that Don didn’t mind staying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about your job?” Don asked eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sure yet,” Norman said, drumming his hand on the table. “Mr. Gordon’s very in favour of veterans, though. I don’t think he’d have a problem with letting me go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don didn’t say what was really on his mind, which was the fact he couldn't stop picturing Norman bleeding out in a field somewhere in Korea. The scar on his neck was white now, but still raised, just visible over his shirt collar. “They need much in the way of radio engineers over there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They need mechanical engineers,” Norman said. “You done with that paper?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have at it,” Don said, handing it over and rubbing his hand across his jaw. He needed to shave soon, but he was reluctant to leave the kitchen table, to snap the slow Sunday morning, watching Norman’s clean profile, backlit by the big dining room windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman apparently felt him watching, and looked up from the paper, catching Don’s gaze. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don took a sip of coffee, trying to wash away the lump in his throat. “Just worried they’ll put you in charge of people. What a mess that would be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I should do it?” Norman asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Don said honestly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be fine if I went,” Norman said. “Engineering corps, they wouldn’t be in combat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Don lied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You done with that?” Norman asked, reaching out and taking the coffee cup out of Don’s hand. Don gave him a sour look until Norman stood up and came around the table, pulling Don out of his seat and towards the bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Don said, amused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a distraction,” Norman said, sweet as anything, pushing Don through the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1951</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>...We took a village and another mountain today. We’ll see how much of this makes it past the censors. You should see the tanks we have with us now - almost makes me wish I was back in one. Don’t worry about me though, we’re mostly just [redacted]. These gooks don’t shoot as straight as the Krauts...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…Glad to hear you saved enough for that plot of land. Your folks used to have a farm, didn’t they? I guess war’s good for the glass business, if not much else. I know how you hate the cold. Don’t know how the weather is in Northern California, but it’s got to be better than Chicago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m afraid I was spoiled rotten in Germany - they’ve got us hauling 75lb packs up and down mountains here, fixing bridges. Sometimes I dream about having hot water, an unthinkable luxury. We’re all quite miserable, but the worse it gets, the better the jokes get…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...Thank you for the photo of your newest mare. Any time you can send a proper photo of my sweetheart instead, I’ll greatly appreciate it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As I’m sure you’ve heard, they’ve sacked MacArthur. I guess I can understand why - I sure as hell wouldn’t want to fight the Chinese on their own soil. This whole bloody affair seems to be nothing more than useless pageantry for no cause other than politics. I think you’ve got it figured out, with your ranch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t worry about me, we don’t see much action other than the patrols at night…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1952</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span> ...You’ll laugh at me now, but we got replacements the other day and I was quite taken aback at how fat and clean and eager they are. I suppose I’ve got nothing on your three years campaign when you suddenly had to take in the greenest teenager that ever walked the earth though. I guess things don’t change that much - they were probably bad-mouthing replacements all the way back in Sparta. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Speaking of things not changing, we’re still eating the same C-Rations we were in Germany. How’s that for a morale-booster...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...Tell my sweetheart, if I can be so bold to call her that, that I miss her very much. Lord, it feels stupid writing those words, but I hope you catch my meaning. Now that the fighting has died down and nobody needs us to fiddle around with any bridges or undetonated mortars or whatever variety of odd things they think engineers have, we have three weeks of leave in Japan coming up and it can’t come soon enough. I expect the only injury I’ll be facing is to my hand from writing all these letters.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yours, as always,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Norman.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1953</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Don saw the dust before he saw the car; it was August and there hadn’t been too many visitors to the ranch recently, letting the dirt dry up on the road undisturbed. Don squinted into the sun. It looked like an older Ford model, nobody he recognized. The dogs were already barking like mad. </span>
  <span>The filly he’d been walking around the corral sidled a bit, flinging her head in the air against the bridle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy, girl,” Don said, although he could have flung his head in the air too. He was spending too much time with the horses. Last time he’d been in town he’d read the headlines on the paper; there’d been an armistice signed in Korea, and troops were beginning to return home. Don had hardened his heart against hope, and been glad of it as the days rolled by to the end of the summer with no word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned the filly out into the paddock, then headed towards the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dogs had surrounded the visitor and his dinged-up car, barking at him. “Quiet,” Don told them, and they shut up. Some slunk off, and other went friendly, wagging their tails and sniffing the man’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some alarm system you got here,” the man said, patting one of the dogs on the head. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, the pinkie and a ring finger. His whole hand was mottled with burn scars, shiny and pink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don took in the sight of him. Norman had another new scar, a healed white line down the side of his face. His hair was cropped military short despite his civilian clothes, and he looked tired. There were new frown lines between his eyebrows, around his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t think I’d see you around here so soon,” Don said, hands in his pockets. It almost felt like meeting a stranger, seeing this battered, thin man with tired eyes. “Just get back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, landed in San Francisco last night. Picked up this junker and drove up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heading up to Pittsburgh to see your folks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I wanted to give myself a few days before going to see them,” Norman said with a sigh, running his mangled hand over his hair. “They’re going to be spitting mad when they see me like this, on top of me not getting married yet and taking over the store. They haven’t gotten sick of that tune yet. I need to build up to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome to stay here,” Don said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Norman said, looking around. It wasn’t much to look at - the house was an old homestead, and the barn’s roof was sagging, but the creek at the bottom of the valley was still trickling along, even in the high summer, and valley’s ridges were full of old pine trees and tall grass. Don had about twenty horses now, spread out in the hills, swishing their tails against the flies. Norman looked back over at Don, studying him. “You look good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wish I could say the same about you,” Don said honestly. “You look bushed. Want some coffee or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, yes,” Norman said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Don stepped forward, reaching out to touch the scar on the side of Norman’s face. “What happened here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shrapnel,” Norman said, closing his eyes for a second, leaning into Don’s hand. “During the Inch’on Landing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should have gone with you,” Don said, stroking his thumb along the scar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman fixed his slightly bloodshot eyes on Don. “No. I wouldn’t have wanted you to. Besides, then you’d have given up all this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’s mouth tightened. They both knew that he’d given up his stomach for fighting. These days he was happy enough to ride around checking his fences, training the horses, dozing off by the evening fire. “I guess not,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman reached up and took Don’s hand, then kissed the back of his hand. “This gave me something to come home to, at least. I hope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Norman, of course,” Don said, reaching out and pulling Norman into a fierce hug, hand cradling the back of his head. He’d hoped to see Norman again, but their letters had died off three months ago, and three years apart had been a long time; he felt stupid, waiting for Norman, but he’d waited all the time. Norman had lost weight, but he still fit in Don's arms the same. “You know how I feel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman cupped his face and kissed him, deliberately and sweetly, like he was finally saying a proper hello. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they broke apart, they were both smiling. The painful know in Don's chest had eased. “That cup of coffee still on offer?” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Don said. “Then I can show you around. Want to go riding?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been on a horse,” Norman said. “But I want to see that mare of yours, the one so important you mailed me a photo of her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess what I called her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please tell me you didn’t call her Fury,” Norman said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I called her Patton,” Don said. “Because she’s an asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Norman laughed, and they went into the house together, in the August sunshine. </span>
</p><p> </p>
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